Would Will Henley call again? The other night after Mrs. W and Max had left the hospital, Will had also said his good nights. But he'd taken her cell number and actually called it later that very day. He'd asked after her father and wanted to hear all the medical details. Then . . . that was it.
What? What did she expect? For him to call every day?
Gabby stowed the Jeep in the employee lot to the rear of the winery. It was quite possible that Will Henley was just very polite and gentlemanly, and that she'd been wrong to read a more personal interest into his behavior. He'd described himself as a Boy Scout, hadn't he? Maybe her family's medical crisis was just the emergency equivalent of helping an old lady across a street or coaxing a cat down from a tree.
And the kiss? Well, maybe it was just lust—hot and fleeting—getting the better of him. Or maybe he'd been so exhausted he wasn't thinking straight. Or maybe he'd liked her that night but had already thought better of it. Any of the above multiple-choice answers could well be correct.
She entered the main winery building through the rear door, next to the barrels of vineyard nutrients and weed killer. She planned to make a pit stop to wash up but was accosted by Mrs. W, who naturally looked stunning in sleek black pants and soft white sweater. Gabby sported shorts, dirt-caked running shoes, a baseball cap, and a polo shirt under a fleece vest. With streaks of dust on her legs from the vineyard.
Gabby watched Mrs. W take in her smeared condition in a glance. "With no one around today," the older woman suggested, "let's talk in the break room."
She doesn't want me to get her upholstery dirty. But really, who could blame her? Mrs. W worked out of her husband's old office, the most elegant room in the winery.
They arranged themselves on bright orange plastic chairs around a scratched Formica table. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, while the concession machines made their usual low chugging sounds. The whole room gave off a strong Lysol smell, like the cleaning crew had gone haywire the night before.
"I spoke with your mother this morning and she told me your father continues to improve," Mrs. W said. "I am so glad to hear that."
"He gave us all quite a scare."
"He certainly did. And I imagine his recuperation will take some time."
Now was the moment to sound as reassuring as possible. The last thing Gabby wanted was for Mrs. W to bring in a winemaker on top of her, or to hire consultants who might muck up the process she and her father had created.
"The doctors say he'll have to take it easy for six weeks or so, but after that I'm sure he'll be back to normal. And in the meanwhile, I will be more than happy to take up the slack, Mrs. Winsted. I've worked at my father's side for years and completely understand how he does things. You don't have a thing to worry about."
Mrs. W gave Gabby one of her trademark penetrating stares. "Do you enjoy the work, Gabriella? Are you sure it's what you want to do?"
"I love it! I love everything about it." Gabby thought Mrs. W didn't look entirely convinced, though she found it easy to imagine that the former actress would find the often hot, dusty, grubby labor of winemaking unappealing. "I studied enology in college—it's what I've wanted to do all my life. I love the farming aspect, too, and the science—I studied chemistry, too—and of course there's art in winemaking as well."
"Yes, there is, isn't there?" Mrs. W continued to eye her narrowly. Gabby found herself wondering why Max wasn't participating in this little tete-a-tete. If he was taking over, wouldn't he have something to say about Suncrest's lead winemaker, arguably its most important position?
But Mrs. W broke into her thoughts by clearing her throat suddenly, as if she'd made a decision. "Well, Gabriella, I do believe you can handle the extra load. So I will leave it to you to oversee the winemaking during your father's convalescence. But"—and she raised a warning finger—"if he is not able to come back to work by harvest, I will need to make other arrangements."
That gives me two months. The rush of relief Gabby felt was tinged by anxiety. It was all up to her now and it never had been before. "Thank you so much, Mrs. Winsted. I appreciate your confidence." I hope some of it rubs off on me.
Mrs. W stood up. "Certainly," she said, then bestowed a cool smile and sailed off, her business done.
Gabby's was just beginning.
*
Ava had one last hill to climb to finish her four-mile run. She consulted her sport watch, squared her shoulders, and forced her Nike-shod feet to keep pounding the narrow dirt road that wound through Suncrest's vineyards. Napa's withering midday sun beat on her fair skin, taunting her resolve. A less willful woman might have judged this final incline insurmountable and taken an easier route home, but Ava was enough of a headbanger to keep going.
Running was one of the few things she did without an audience, never straying from her own property. She didn't care for panting and sweating in public, or for showing off the cherry-red flush that blotched her cheeks when she exerted herself. True, she sometimes ran across field workers, all Hispanic men, only a few whose names she knew. She didn't enjoy their watchful eyes, but with them she didn't feel much need to maintain appearances. She might pretend to share the bold earthiness of Ava Gardner—whose name the teenaged Anna Schroeder appropriated when she first arrived in Hollywood—but in truth she was shy and a little prissy and cared a great deal about the opinion of others.
At length she crested the hill, her chest heaving in a delicious agony of pain and triumph, and was rewarded with a mind-boggling view of vineyards falling away from her in every direction, a thick canopy of dark green leaves hiding the grape clusters that dangled beneath. By late June the vines had stopped their frenetic growing and were turning their energy into ripening the fruit. In two months, harvest would begin.
Ava caught her breath and scanned her acres, and wondered whether she would be present to see the grapes cut from the vines.
Just that morning, Jean-Luc had bounded out of the guest room to tell her that his screenplay had sold. His agent had called his mobile, he told her, his face flushed with excitement. This was the very screenplay that boasted a role for her, a comeback role, an I'll-show-you-I've-still-got-it role. She knew she did, Jean-Luc believed it, and he would return to Paris to find out if France's film moguls agreed and would give her the part.
If only it were that easy.
She began the downhill trot, keeping an eye out for ankle-spraining rocks. She wanted to go to Paris. She wanted to leave Suncrest in Max's hands. But how could she without some confidence that he wouldn't destroy it while she wasn't looking?
Yet a scheme had begun to take shape in her mind. Will Henley played a part in it, and he would come onstage that very afternoon.
She picked up her pace, both anticipating that scene and eager to reach her home, which she now spied a quarter-mile ahead, nestled among olive trees and grapevines. It was a 1960s ranch house just east of the winery proper that could not have been more plebeian until she and Porter took it over. They transformed it into a light-filled oasis, airy and elegant and yet supremely comfortable. And it was very California, with skylights and huge windows and French doors in nearly every room, so the gardens and terraces were always mere steps away.
She was just loping around the side of the house toward the pool and the pergola—where Mrs. Finchley always had waiting for her a chilled post-run sport drink—when a shiny red Mercedes convertible careened noisily onto the driveway behind her and sent up a spray of pebbles, several of which struck her naked legs.
Max beamed at her from the driver's seat. "Like it?"
She was so taken aback, it took her a moment to approach the car. It was a sleek conveyance, indeed. She eyed her son. "Did you purchase this vehicle?"
His face was aglow. "I most certainly did."
"Is buying this supposed to convince me you're ready to run Suncrest?"
"What does this have to do with Suncrest?" He laughed, his smile open and wide, his dark eyes dancing, and for a moment her hear
t clenched. She remembered the little boy he had been—cheerful, rambunctious, and unscathed. Nothing had ever gone wrong and it seemed that nothing ever could.
In those golden years, she believed she'd been a good mother. It hadn't been so much of a burden then, like it was when he was a baby and it was again when he was a teenager. During those tumultuous phases it was either more drudgery than she could take, or more angst—more fights, more disappointments, more sulks.
She hadn't enjoyed it. She got into a cycle she wasn't proud of. Pushing Max onto nannies and into boarding schools, then feeling guilty and going hugely overboard in the opposite direction, buying him extravagances, taking him on trips. When he behaved like any spoiled boy would, how could she be surprised or angry?
It was what she had trained him to be.
She shook her head, suddenly bone tired. "I just want to know what spending an exorbitant amount of money on a sports car has to do with Suncrest."
He shook his head, still smiling, then got out of the car and approached her across the pebbled drive. "It doesn't have anything to do with Suncrest." Then he held out the key. "It has to do with you."
She frowned. "What?"
"I bought the car for you." He came closer and pressed the key into her hand. "Come on, give her a spin."
It was as though the synapses weren't firing in her brain. "Max … "
"Mom." His gaze was steady. "I noticed when I was driving your car the other night that it's getting old. I wanted to do something to make up a little bit for the other night, and I thought of this."
"But it's too much! It's . . ." Her voice failed her. It misses the point, she wanted to say, it's too much, it's not what I need. It's not what I need to see from you.
But he wouldn't be dissuaded. "Look, now that I'm back, we need a second set of wheels anyway. I thought I'd use your car and you can tool around in this. Don't look so stunned!" He laughed again and lowered his voice. "It's just you and me now, Mom. I want us to stick together—I want us to be on the same page. I know I've screwed up a lot in the past, but I want you to believe that I'm going to try harder. Say you'll take it, as a token of goodwill if nothing else."
She looked for deception in his eyes and found none. She wanted to believe him. Nothing would give her more relief or satisfaction.
Ava eyed the car warily, like it might explode or take off suddenly on its own. It was beautiful—sleek and sexy and cherry red, much flashier than anything she'd pick out for herself. But who wouldn't agree that Ava Winsted was due for a bit of fun?
"Come on." Max cocked his head at the car, grinning.
"But I'm so dirty, I'll make a mess."
"You won't make a mess," and he nudged her toward the driver's door.
It drove like a dream. She loved the wind blowing through her hair, and it was such fun to blare the radio while screaming down the Trail, feeling 21 again and like a Hollywood starlet, racing around L.A.'s canyons dreaming of how rich and famous she would someday be. She and Max even raced up an isolated mountain road to Max's favorite overlook, then barreled back down again at a marvelously insane speed.
She had such a good time, she forgot to tell Max who was coming to visit them at Suncrest that very afternoon.
*
Will arrived at the winery for his meeting smack on time at 4 o'clock, dressed for the occasion in khakis, dress shirt, and navy sport coat. He didn't mind working on a Saturday—his wasn't the sort of job that hewed to 9 to 5—and besides, he was damn curious why Ava had scheduled this little get-together.
It seemed too much to hope for that she'd done an about-face and was now considering selling Suncrest to GPG. But what else could it be? Their other meetings had all been at his behest, Will Henley a flannel-suited beggar offering her millions on bended knee. Was it possible that her son's absence at his own homecoming party was less noble than Ava had made it out to be? Maybe now she didn't want to hand him control of the winery? That was plausible.
It would save his own ass nicely, too. For Will had pinned all his hopes on Suncrest. He knew that if he could get his hands on that winery, with its unique attributes of brand name and prime vineyard property, he could expand it and earn GPG's investors the millions they were expecting from a Napa Valley acquisition. Suncrest was such an attractive prospect that Will had cast his net no wider—a risky strategy if ever there was one.
If it paid off, LaRue and everybody else at GPG would brand him a hero. But if not …
Will refused even to consider that possibility. He cooled his heels on the curvy path in front of the winery. The building was locked, and he saw no one around, though on this sunny June weekend many of Napa's other wineries were buzzing with tourists. Suncrest was elite enough that it didn't do visitor tours except by appointment.
Gabby might be around though, right? he wondered. No doubt she was putting in extra hours filling in for her father. Then again, she could just as easily be at the hospital. The idea of running into her—here, now—made him jittery. He was eager to see her— beyond eager, really—but didn't want to have to explain his business at Suncrest. In fact, his professional code barred him from doing so. Loose lips killed deals. But if he wanted to get to know this woman, as he most assuredly did, the nature of his employment at least couldn't remain a mystery for long. He found, though, he wasn't looking forward to getting into that, either.
He shook his head, irritated with himself. What was he, embarrassed about his work? That was nonsensical. GPG was a prestigious organization, filled with high-caliber individuals who did valuable work, resuscitating companies that might well have gone under otherwise. True, those restructurings always came at some cost, but what change didn't? GPG was a bastion of free enterprise, in which he ardently believed. His fervor was almost patriotic.
Yet . . . Gabby might not share his view. Many of the people who worked for the companies that GPG acquired didn't grasp the bigger economic picture, particularly if the change in ownership landed them on the unemployment line. He thought it was highly unlikely that would happen to Gabby, though. In fact, if GPG acquired Suncrest and ramped up its operations, her fortunes might well improve. No doubt she'd make more wine, lead an expanded staff, earn more money.
"Will," Ava called, sailing toward him on the winery path, a vision in a peach-colored sweater set and slim white pants. She looked as cool and elegant as a parfait. Max followed in her wake, freshly shaven this time, in much the same outfit as Will minus the blazer. He looked considerably more presentable than he had at the hospital, where indeed his garb had belied the notion that he'd spent the afternoon in a business meeting in the city. Knowing a bit about Max's history, Will hadn't quite bought into that line, but couldn't fathom another explanation for his extraordinary absence.
So, Will wondered, could it be Max who wanted this meeting?
Ava poked a key in the winery's big oak door, which groaned open as if it were the entry to a medieval castle. "I thought we'd talk in my office," she murmured, then led them through the somnolent tank room—filled with enormous stainless steel tanks that would be abuzz with fermenting activity in the fall—and up some stairs to an office that Ava called her own but that clearly had not been redone since her husband's day.
It had the feel of a club room, Will thought, and could not be more masculine. It was paneled in cherrywood, with built-in shelves of the same rich material loaded with sports trophies, framed photographs, and leather-bound volumes. An imposing mahogany desk marred by only a few neat stacks of paperwork sat atop an Oriental carpet, while two tartan sofas ate up much of the remaining floor space. Roman shades half-drawn on the large windows blocked the intense afternoon sun.
The office said more eloquently than Ava Winsted ever could that she did not intend to continue running Suncrest. She had made no mark on her late husband's professional domain, either because she couldn't bear to or because she didn't expect to be around long enough to make it worthwhile.
The housekeeper Will recognized from th
e party bustled in with tea and scones, which she arranged on the low table between the tartan sofas. All three sat while she poured. She had barely exited before Ava got down to business.
"I asked you here, Will, because I'd like you to bring Max up to speed on our discussions regarding Suncrest." Her gaze was steady. "I told him that your firm has made an offer to buy the winery."
"I'm certainly interested in hearing what you have to say." Max smiled broadly. "But I have to tell you that I agree with my mother on this. I have no interest in selling."
Will tried to get a read on Max. He seemed intelligent and charming enough, and certainly looked the part of the well-bred heir. That didn't jibe, though, with Will's research, which had produced a different picture—that of a restless, self-indulgent youth who'd never shown more than mediocre ability in the classroom or on the athletic field. He'd gotten into some scrapes both in high school and at USC, where apparently he'd majored in parties and minored in women.
That wasn't indicative of much, though. Will had always been straitlaced but many solid, highly successful people had wild college careers on their resumes.
Will launched into his spiel. "I must compliment both of you on Suncrest," he told them. "It's in an enviable position. The label is well-known and synonymous with high-quality, high-end wines."
Ava nodded. "That was always the niche Porter envisioned for Suncrest."
"And he made that vision a reality. It is quite impressive to have remained competitive in that category for so long." Will turned to Max, confident that for all his apprenticing in France, Ava's son had only a rudimentary understanding of the wine business. "My firm is interested in the wine sector for a variety of reasons. As you well know, wine sales have grown at double the rate of the economy since the 1980s."
Max nodded sagely. "That's certainly true."
"In addition, the demographic trends are very positive for premium wines. Ten thousand baby boomers turn fifty every day and that will be true for the next dozen years. In short, we view the wine business as an attractive area for investment."
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